The funeral yesterday was a wonderful goodbye. It was at Donald G Ford funeral home in Grafton, a couple miles west of Blueville on 50. The place was packed. So many people you know and sorta know, a reminder that Motown's underground is small and closeknit. Helen Panzironi's beautiful portrait of Joey decked out for a fishing trip was up front where a casket would be if he hadn't been cremated. And Tom Rodd brought several landscape water colors of his that Joey did. We enjoyed a song from Joe's recent CD, I think it was one of his brothers-in-law who played and sang it. And Joey Calandrella eulogized him so perfectly, I believe it started with "Joe was. . .a scoundrel." I know it's trite, but I laughed, I cried. There was a reception afterward upstairs at Four Corners, but Daria and I headed back across Oak Grove Road instead.

I had no idea till I read the DP's obituary that Joey had so many brothers and sisters. In fact, I didn't realize that Anne Harman, a kind colleague of mine, is one of his sisters. I didn't really know either how absolutely beloved Joey was to such a great many people. What will my funeral look like? What will yours? I'd like to find my way to the spreading of his ashes. I imagine there will be some clean moonshine at that event, too.

"Mom!!!" The familar sound crashed with a new vibrance catching my attention. "Mom Joey has the BIGGEST mushroom in the WORLD - come see!"

I rounded the kitchen door and saw a familiar face, all smiles, head tilted as the children of the neighborhood gathered round. Pausing and listening I heard that wonder deep voice say, "Now, NEVER eat anything from the woods without talking to me or your parents about it. Mushrooms can be poison and No - Normandy, no Smurfs were hurt. Uncle Joey knows where they live and I'd never hurt little Smurfet."

Joey came in and chopped the basketball sized mushroom into gormet pieces, stir-fried it in other herbs he pulled from a bag in his coat and served the whole neighborhood.

And then there were the times he'd show up, guitar in hand at the river where I lived in a tent for a year and a half and toss me his bamboo flute. We'd play until tired then hold conversations that ancient Greek Philosophers would envy.

Joe is that tip of history that remained from the pioneers. He was a legend while alive and a mythic hero now that he's gone to the place the wildwood flowers bloom - with that pretty woman on his arm, the bottle of dandylion wine tucked into his coat and endless streams of beauty in his words ... I miss him.